


Promise of Spring

by the_consulting_linguist (xASx)



Series: Johnlock Prompts/Oneshots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Fluffy Ending, HLV-alternate ending, Happy Ending, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, No Mary Morstan, No baby, S3, Short & Sweet, Trans Character, beginning of a relationship, but they will be together, not anymore at least, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 16:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14698236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/the_consulting_linguist
Summary: "John waited, then, pulse hammering in his neck. He waited as Sherlock reached his right arm behind his back, undoing the clip that held the white bandage together. His long fingers took hold of the edge of it, and he slowly, painstakingly, began to pass it from one hand to the other, around his back, and to his other hand again. And the white cocoon unravelled to reveal the alabaster skin, and the hollow valley of his diaphragm, and the bony shadows of his ribs"HLV. Sherlock is recovering from being shot, and is finally back at 221B. John is staying with him. Sherlock believes there are things John does not know. But he is unaware that he can be just as clueless. Fluffy happy ending ensues.





	Promise of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Written in honour of the Day against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia.

“Sherlock… I am here so I can take care of you. Let me-”

“No”

“Sherlock… You can’t possibly do that on your own”

“I am perfectly capable, John”

“You can barely stand”

“Irrelevant”

“Would you quit being an arsehole?”

“Nope”

John grumbled out a sigh, folding his arms over his chest. Sherlock stared daggers at him from across the room. The Doctor huffed, exhaled sharply through his nose, planted his feet more squarely, and held his ground.

“Would you tell me what this is about?”

Sherlock looked away.

“Is this a matter of nudity?”

Sherlock grunted noncommittally. John rolled his eyes, walked toward the bed, and sat down beside the other man. Sherlock shifted on the pillows, raising his body up a little.

“Sherlock… I have seen a good number of naked bodies. I am a doctor, remember?”. His eyes were soft, but at the same time there was an edge on his voice. Like the way a mother, brimming with worry, becomes fed up with a stubborn child.

Sherlock shrugged, and immediately winced, as the stitches on his chest pulled, and the ache in his bones and flesh was awakened and yawned with hunger.

“It is an issue of bodily autonomy, John. I have been restricted to a hospital bed for far too long, having nurses do everything for me, it’s humiliating”.

John nodded, as if he really understood, and looked down at Sherlock’s hand resting atop the covers.

“And that’s why we agreed you’d return home, and I’d take over your care. Yes?”

“Yes -and no”

John shook his head, and was this conversation taking place under different circumstances, was it a cold, a flu, a cracked rib, mild bruising, he would have laughed. But now laughter wilted on his lips before it had even rolled off his tongue, poisoned to bitterness by a bullet planted to the scrawny chest lying beside him, by a liar that should have been a partner, and that now was a stranger and nothing, nothing more.

“Why ‘no’?”

“Because… John, I despise being…”

“Sherlock”, John interrupted, raising an index in the air between them. “I am already letting you eat on your own, stand when you feel strong enough, take your pills. Why this?”

“Do we have to do it now?”, Sherlock whined instead of answering, and pressed the crown of his head more against the pillows, as If in exhaustion. “I’ll be stronger tomorrow and I’ll see to it myself”

“You stubborn git”, John sighed. “Even if you can re-apply the iodine solution on your own, how are you going to re-bandage your own chest? You can barely move your arms-“

“Will you stop reminding me what I can and cannot do?”

Sherlock’s voice had risen, and it rang between them, icy-cold. It drained the energy from him, and he could feel the space between them pulsing with the echo of Sherlock’s restrained anger. The doctor pursed his lips, hummed, looked down at his sock-clad feet. “Okay”. He said, almost nonchalantly. Life slowly returned to his numb limbs, and he shook his head, his face a grimace.

“Okay. Fine. We’ll do it your way. Tomorrow morning”.

 He rose, and nodded curtly, once, to a startled Sherlock, before he headed for the door, gait heavy and purposeful.

“John, wait-“

Whatever Sherlock had wanted to say, it had been drowned by the thud of the door behind John’s back.

 

***

 

The next day, he carried the necessary provisions to Sherlock’s bed His expression must have been sourer than he had wanted to, because Sherlock bit his lip and said nothing, as John recited the procedure to him. The sulking detective did not voice any protests about how he knew all the steps already.

“Come on. Let me at least let you take your tee off”, John mumbled, tiredly, and Sherlock nodded. The doctor’s hands were gentle and sure as they eased the white t-shirt over Sherlock’s head, and then guided his arms out of it, one first and then the other, supporting them as they lifted, and then carefully laying them in Sherlock’s lap. He folded the tee and left it on foot of the bed, as he would have to help Sherlock into it afterwards.

“So. You’re all set. I will go to the kitchen to make some tea. When you’re done just call, okay? No need to shout, I’ll hear you”. He gave a reserved smile, patted Sherlock’s bony knee, and stood. Sherlock’s head remained lowered, his gaze glued to his hands.

“John, I… I’m sorry”

“Mm?”

“I realised that after what happened there have been issues of… trust at stake. Morstan’s betrayal, what I made you go through the two years I was away… I did not want, last night, to give you the impression that I do not trust you”.

John’s eyes narrowed in confusion and curiosity, and he took a tentative step closer. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath.

 “You elected to be here to-“, he inhaled sharply as a stab of pain momentarily made his words falter. “-to care for me, and-”

“Shh…” John crept closer, sitting at the edge of the mattress beside Sherlock.  “It’s alright”. The Doctor swallowed and slowly laid a palm above Sherlock’s chest, feeling its soft fall and rise, willing it to be regular and strong and healthy if he could, just by this featherlight touch alone.

Sherlock’s iridescent eyes locked on the palm resting atop his chest, his heart, and the bullet wound, and he stayed as still as he could, softening his breaths, as if a butterfly had graced him with a visit and he had to be careful not to scare it away.

 “I do trust you, John”

John nodded, and his eyes wandered to a lonely ebony curl that had broken away from the rest and was resting mischievously over Sherlock’s left eye.

“I know”, he said, his throat tight. “Sherlock, I… I am sorry for last night”.

Sherlock blinked, and John could feel his toes curling and flexing with nervousness beneath the blanket.

“Your reasons are your own. And I respect them. You shouldn’t have to tell me what they are for me to do so”.

He offered a soft smile to Sherlock’s perplexed frown.

“Whatever it is… It is alright. Okay? It’s fine”.

Sherlock’s expression cleared, like clouds dispersing in the sky after the rain.

“I mean it”, John pressed on, his voice light and airy. When he saw it made the edges of Sherlock’s lips twitch, he shook his head with a small chuckle. “It’s aaaaall fine”, he added, playfully drawing the vowel. Sherlock’s soft laughter rumbled alongside his.

God, he loved to make the man laugh.

He did not consciously realise that in trying to do give Sherlock joy, he had found his own. But his heart knew, and the knowledge settled over it like morning dew.

Sherlock cleared his throat, sobering up, and straightened his spine somewhat more. “John, I want to do it. But I want you to stay. Please”.

John inhaled sharply. Set his jaw. Nodded. “You sure?”

“Yes”

“Okay”.

John waited, then, pulse hammering in his neck. He waited as Sherlock reached his right arm behind his back, undoing the clip that held the white bandage together. His long fingers took hold of the edge of it, and he slowly, painstakingly, began to pass it from one hand to the other, around his back, and to his other hand again. And the white cocoon unravelled to reveal the alabaster skin, and the hollow valley of his diaphragm, and the bony shadows of his ribs; and the twin faded scars beneath Sherlock’s chest, two crescent moons pointing upwards toward the slender chest and wounded, swan-like sternum.

John was holding his breath. Sherlock swallowed.

Entirely unravelled, the last coil of bandage pooled around his waist like a tattered flag. The dark head was lowered, and John could see the detective worrying his bottom lip, the half of that perfectly shaped Cupid’s bow, between his teeth.

“Sherlock?... Look at me”

Sherlock did not move, but there was something about the energy of his body; springing, coiling, as if ready to pounce. Or flee. John could not stop a fond smile from blooming onto his lips.

“Sherlock… I told you it’s fine-“

“I know it’s fine”

Sherlock’s eyes were looking at him over a small trembling pout, burning, as if wanting to see through him, pick him apart, discern anything angry and evil and _wrong_ that could be hidden there.

And John did not blame him. Did not question his trust.

“You berk”, he said only, and with a swift movement pulled up his own t-shirt and jumper up to his neck.

Revealing two proud, faded crescent moons of his own.

Sherlock’s inhale was a hiss.

John beamed at him, giddy and with his breathing too fast.

“There’s always something, isn’t there?”, he managed.

And to his delight, saw Sherlock burst in giggles, and bloom crimson, and hide his face in his palms.

“Alright?”, John cooed, reaching to gently pry Sherlock’s hands away from that perfectly angular face. Sherlock squirmed a little, but John just soothed with more murmurs and whispers, until the other man would look at him again.

“Alright?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Thank you”

“No… Sherlock…”, he said, cupping the beloved face in his palms “Thank _you”_

Sherlock closed his eyes, and John could swear he could feel the heat beneath his hands.

“You ridiculous, brilliant, gorgeous man”.

“John-“. This time, Sherlock’s eyes were wide, overcast and shining both. And there was a question in there, marrow-deep and sorrowful, and yet hopeful like a small hidden bulb waiting for spring.

“ _Yes_ ”, John said in reply. And what had seemed like a leap to the void only too many times, was now seamless. Like waking up.

And Sherlock smiled. Because he knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos are much appreciated.


End file.
